-My girlfriend and I opened the store as the only cashiers, tag-teaming to perfection. She ran a lane with her superior “I Am Totally Awake And Ready To Be Here” face, while I handled the nitty gritty opening chores. Together, we easily conquered what would have alone been a devastating shift. There is nobody I would rather fall asleep at the register with.

-A man insisted on stowing his items within a set of drawers he had purchased. The fact that he had more items than he did storage space seemed an inconvenience, but I chose not to say anything, sure he would quickly notice. As I rang up my next guest five minutes later, I looked back, and wished I had said something earlier.

-A woman who was either in her teens or her forties spent her transaction making an impassioned case for the comedic value of Boss Baby. I always admire someone willing to stand for what they believe in, but I wholeheartedly admonish her choices in life that led to this point.

-Handing me a crumpled bag she decided she no longer wanted, a woman was devastated to hear me say it would be recycled. She declared this wasteful and very nearly took it back for her own purposes. I wish dearly that she had committed to this, as I am desperate to know the fate greater than recycling she feels this bag deserves.

-“I’ve never been carded at Target,” a thirty year-old woman said, as I did just that. I thought nothing of it at first, but after looking at her wizened and worried face, I became concerned that I had blown her cover entirely. What that cover was, I am unsure, but blowing it seems to have been the worst outcome this transaction could have had.

-I came across a basket full of fidget spinners in emblazoned with varying designs. The Superman spinners, the Justice League spinners, and even the plain label spinners, however, were all marked solely with the Superman emblem. I know not how he has risen the ranks to become the default design of fidget toys. That being said, I do believe this is how the plot of Injustice got rolling, so I know now to prepare for the uprising.

-When asked how he was today, a man told me that he was doing great, but he hoped to get over that soon. As a longtime mental roommate of chronic depression, I am ready and willing to get Freaky Friday with this man, giving us both just what we want.

-After her purchase, a woman declared that her cart should be shot. I have no other context, but I do trust her judgement, and I now shall carry out her sentence on my break.

-A mother coached her inexplicably green-faced children to hide their unwanted toys behind the candy shelves rather than hand them to me. I believe them to be the most notorious crime family in southwest Virginia. As they left, one of the boys offered me a high-five. I accepted the gesture, and with it, a membership in the Family. Please leave a comment below if you would like to hear my upcoming Mafia Crime Spreetales.

-I met an undercover time traveler who revealed herself as such through her “It’s Twenty Fourteen Time” sweatshirt which fell just short of subtle. I only hope she can make it back from this recon mission in time.

-Moments after I turned my lane’s light on, a woman approached my lane. She double-checked that I did not need more time to prepare for guests, then, after I said I was ready, she triple-checked, just to be sure. This level of consideration is nigh unrivaled in my experience, and I appreciated it greatly. Her purchase then rang up at barely half of what she expected, proving what I have always said about Cosmic Cashier Karma to be true and setting an example for all.

-I left my lane for twenty minutes to complete a training in the back of the store. Upon my return, I found my register covered from its proverbial head to its proverbial toes in deep purple fingerprints. I will spend the rest of my days working to uncover what I have missed, and how it went so very, very awry.

-Today, I noticed that I have many more Retales than an average shift. More things have seemed spectacular to me, more things have seemed thrilling, more things good and pure and joyful. The reason for this is simple enough: my partner in all things stationed by my side. This makes sense, as my girlfriend has long been my inspiration and the reason I am so prone to looking on the bright side. I hope to have more days like today, and as long as I have her, I know this hope will be fulfilled.

Anyone who knew Jack Zimmermann would laugh at the idea of him even being able to remember the login for his Twitter account.

No one, not even his parents, would ever suspect that he checked his feed every single morning.

Jack didn’t care much for social media; he was too private a person to ever want the world to know where he was or what he was eating at any given moment. In fact, he only followed three accounts: his mother’s, the official Falconers’, and that of Li’l Dicky’s Southern Comforts. The latter was the only one he actually cared about.

See, Jack Zimmermann had a deep, dark secret – he was in love with the mini apple pies that were sold daily at Li’l Dicky’s. It was the only dessert he ever indulged in on a regular basis, and said indulgences were a secret he would take to his grave.

Every morning, Li’l Dicky’s posted their location for the day. Jack knew the general schedule by heart at this point, but some days the truck switched things up, due to weather or construction or event catering, and Twitter was the only way for Jack to know if he would be able to get his apple pie fix.

It didn’t hurt that Eric Bittle, the owner of Li’l Dicky’s, smiled at Jack like the sun shined out of his ass every time he came by. But really, it was the pies Jack couldn’t enough of. Mostly. Probably.

Here we go! My first Alex imagine! Hope you like it as much I enjoyed writing it! Leave your comments behind, I’d appreciate it very much! (Picture doesn’t belong to me! I found it on google pictures!)

“Of course,
Anne.” The young woman responded to her
future mother-in-law, making her way towards the bathroom. She took a hold of
the laundry basket where the freshly washed laundry was neatly folded and put
in, then carrying it to the backyard. The weather was beautiful, a perfect
summer day and the sun was shining warmly on the sky, not even a single cloud
was to be seen. (Y/N) loved days like
this. It changed her mood to a better one. And now that war had taken place,
she needed a little distraction even more.

She walked
through a sea of different flowers, feeling them brushing her uncovered legs
and the touch left a comfortable sensation behind. When she arrived to the
hanger, she placed the basket to the ground, bent down and grabbed the first piece
of clothes and hung them up, attaching it with two clothes pegs. As she
continued doing her task, her mind easily drifted to the young man that she
loved with all her heart.

It was not
a long time ago that he left off for war but for (Y/N) it felt like a whole
eternity. Living without him for a special amount of time was a deep agony. She
missed him being around her. His smile, his eyes, his hugs and even his
terrible jokes. When Alex told her and his family that he was going to fight
against the Germans, it crushed (Y/N)’s heart. She knew letting him go was a
huge risk, he might never come back to her, safe and sound. And they were very
close to marrying each other. (Y/N) had been so excited to finally settling
down with him, living a live as a married couple. But Alex was needed, she was
aware of it, every young man in the village they’d been living in was needed
there to help their French brothers. And (Y/N) could do nothing against it. She
knew pretty damn well that if Alex wouldn’t leave, people would talk about them
behind their backs, even shaming them that their children had to fight but Alex
was not.

Anne took
the news for more badly than (Y/N). She fainted right after Alex made the
announcement and when she woke up again, it took all of their strength to calm
her down. (Y/N) couldn’t blame her for it, she raised her son after all and if
(Y/N) was a mother, she would have probably reacted the same way. She promised
Alex that she would stay with his family as long as she could to take care of
them and support them, but he had to promise her that he would come home back
to her.

“You have to.” She forced out crying, clinging
onto his body. “You have to come back to me. Otherwise I wouldn’t know how to
live without you.” He kissed her deeply as a promise for his return.

“I’ll see you hopefully soon.” He told her
before he went out of the house.

Not a long
time ago she had received his last letter. He told her that he was alright and
a heavy stone fell from her heart. He described about the hard times he went
through and how many times he had faced death but still was alive. “For you.” He wrote. “I’m alive for you, my love.”

(Y/N)
couldn’t remember how many times she read all of his letters with tears in her
eyes. Reading his own words felt like he was still there with her, whispering
them into her ear. This was the only way she could calm down for a while.
Plenty of times she had raised her hands up to the sky, praying to god that he
would send Alex back to her. She knew Alex was strong and willing to fight. He
had the heart of a lion.

She had
read in the newspaper that three hundred thousand soldiers were saved and made
their way home to their families. If Alex was among them, she couldn’t know.
They had fortunately not received any bad message of his death. So she hoped
whole-heartedly that he was in one of those trains that carried him back to her.

(Y/N)
pitied the fallen soldiers. Their families were waiting for them like she did,
but the only thing they would be confronted with would be an announcement that
their son couldn’t make it. She respected their braveness, and she would always
keep them in her prayers.

While (Y/N)
was still doing her task and being deep in thoughts, a young soldier was
sneaking his way toward her, paying attention to not making any sounds that would
reveal his position. He held a large bouquet of her favorite flowers in his hands.
Seeing her again in real after countless nights of dreaming about her made his
heart jump in his chest and he was more in love with her than ever. The last
steps were always the agonizing ones but he also crossed this obstacle.

(Y/N)
suddenly felt a pair of hands covering her eyes, preventing her from doing her
work.

“What the
hell?” She exclaimed, as she saw nothing but darkness, her body stiffening
immediately from the touch. “Who in god’s
name is that?”

“You can
guess three times.” She heard someone whisper into her ear delicately. A wave
of different emotions was overwhelming every part, every cell and every fiber
of her body. Happiness, excitement, love, relief. Everything at once. She knew exactly
who was right behind her.

“A-Alex?”
She whimpered, tears flooding down her cheeks. The hands released her eyes and
she was able to turn around. And as she looked into two familiar green eyes
that she longed to see so terribly, she could finally breathe again.

“Oh my
goodness!” She gasped, covering her mouth with both hands. Heavy sobs left her
mouth and before the young man in front of him could respond, she threw herself
at him, crying on his shoulder. Alex wrapped his arms around her tiny frame,
pulling her towards him. Having her in arms again after all the horror he went
through was an indescribable feeling. Both clung onto each other like their
lives depended on the other one. Once (Y/N) back away slightly, she took his
handsome face between her hands.

“You came
back. You really came back. Dear god, I can’t believe it!” She peppered every
centimeter of his face with affectionate kisses before she captured her lips
with his. “Oh my god! Thank you! Thank you, thank you, thank you! Thank you so
so much!” She hugged him again tightly.

“Love,
easy!” Alex laughed. “Let me breathe.”

“I’ve been
worried sick about you.” (Y/N) admitted, easing her grab on him. “You didn’t
send any letters anymore and I thought I lost you. Oh my god!”

“It’s over
now, darling. I’m here. I’m back and I’m not planning on leaving any time soon.”
He kissed her lightly. “I kept my promise, didn’t I?” He handed her over the
bouquet of flowers which created a smile on (Y/N)’s lips.

“I love
you, Alex. So much.”

“I love you
too, beautiful.” He said. “Where is mother? I missed her terribly.”

“She’s
inside, preparing lunch. Jesus, she will be out of her shoes when she sees you
again.” She intertwined their fingers and dragged him into the house. “Come on,
let’s go surprise her. She’ll love this one.”

When they
entered the house, (Y/N) called after her second mother. “Anne? Are you still
in the kitchen?”

“Yes, love!
Lunch is almost ready. If you could help me laying the table that would be very
lovely, my dear.”

Alex’ eyes
shone brightly as he heard the sound of his mother’s voice again. It was not
only (Y/N)’s but her voice in his head that encouraged him during the battles.
He indicated (Y/N) to be quiet whereas she nodded with her head.

He slowly
stepped into the kitchen where his lovely mother was doing the last preparations
for the meal. Anne hadn’t noticed him yet. She was quite busy with running back
and forth, looking for spices for the salad.

“What smells
so good in here?” He asked innocently, making his mother freeze in her
position. She thought first that she misheard his voice but when she looked up
to the door where the young man stood, she couldn’t believe what she saw. Her
whole body began to tremble.

“Your wish
is my command , madam!” She saluted with a laugh and with Alex she prepared the
dining table where afterwards they had a very nice time together.

***

She felt
him stir again in his sleep. This happened very often since he came back home.
Every night he would fidget back and forth in his position, crying out for help
because he was tormented by nightmares. (Y/N) knew that war had changed him a
lot no matter how much he tried to cover it. Nothing would be the same anymore.
His body twitched at every tiny little sound but he tried to pretend like it
wouldn’t bother him. He tried to be the man that he was before he left, but
(Y/N) knew by heart that this man was not there anymore. She was willing to
help him. To help him fight against the bad memories that he made.

She
supported herself on her elbows, glancing at Alex. Turning on the night lamp
beside her, she noticed that his whole body was covered with sweat.

“No, don’t
shoot… Please…” She heard him whimpering in his sleep. “Please, don’t shoot…
no.. no..” His expression showed a hint of distress and fear. “Help… help me…
please…”

“Alex?”
(Y/N) shook his shoulder slightly to wake him up, to save him from this agony. “Alex,
darling wake up.”

“Help…Help…
please help me…” Alex kept whining over and over again.

Seeing him
in a state like this, all vulnerable and terrified, tore her heart apart. She
couldn’t bear to see him hurt and in pain.

“Wake up,
Alex. It’s only a dream. Wake up.” She shook much harder and harsher, causing
him to finally open his eyes. Alex panted heavily, looking at her with fright.

“(Y/N)?”
His chest lifted and fell heavily, while he tried to regain his breath.

“It’s okay,
my dear.” She brought him to an embrace. “It was only a nightmare. You’re safe,
my love. You’re safe.” She ran her fingers through his hair, a gesture that
would calm him down. “It’s okay, Alex. Everything is fine. You’re home. You’re
safe.”

“I thought
I was back there. I really thought I was going to die.” He sniffled.

“No,
darling. Look at me.” She laid her hands on his cheeks. “Everything is okay,
Alex. You’re home, not back there. You’re home with me, your mother and your
father.”

Her words
made him calm down for a little bit. His tensed body relaxed.

“You made
it alive out there, my hero.” (Y/N) said.

“I’m not a
hero.” Alex mumbled.

“Yes, you
are. You did everything that you could to defeat the enemy Alex. You kept fighting
for justice and safety. I really desire you bravery and your strength , my
dear. You faced death so many times but yet you’re alive. You never gave up.
You just went on and on. And I don’t know anyone who is as selfless and willing
as you are. I admire you.”

She offered
him a soothing smile.

“You may
not have won this war, but you gave everything that you have, my love. War does
not always mean winning but also losing. One side always loses. But I’m sure
the Germans soon will be defeated and the deaths of the fallen ones will be
revenged.”

She put kiss
on his temple.

“You’re
going to heal, my love. I promise. You may not forget what you went through and
I don’t expect you to do so but you will be better after a time. Not today, not
tomorrow and the day after. But you will heal. And until then I’m going to
support you, hold you, trying to do everything you want me to.”

Alex nodded
his head, feeling far more better from the words that she spoke.

“We’re
going to beat every nightmare that you have. I’m always there, lying next to
you and keeping you safe.”

“I love
you, (Y/N). I can’t wait to marry you.”

“I love you
too and I can’t wait to marry you.” She responded. In a few weeks, they would
be bonded forever and both of them were looking forward to it. With (Y/N) on
his side, Alex knew that he was complete. She was his life safer. His light
that guided him through darkness.

They laid
down again, talking about their wedding, future children and everything that
their heart desired until they fell to a deep slumber. With (Y/N) in his arms,
Alex was finally at peace.

Summary: Due to the premature death of the King of your clan, his son, the alpha James Barnes, must assume his destiny and lead his people. As the tradition commands, he must choose some worthy omegas to make their his wives and with which he will ensure the subsistence of your clan. All the omega women are obliged to appear before their king, including you. Luckily for you, you would never be chosen… right?

5. Market day

It’s a sunny day and the streets of your city are exactly as you love them: full of life. People chatting animatedly next to stands full of fruit from which their grangers boast, children running through the crowd and mothers behind them yelling to the kids to behave. Inhaling deeply you are pleasantly surprised by the sweet smell of your favorite buns fresh from the oven. Decided, that will be your next stop.

Just before you mislead the two guards James especially chose to follow you around all day, of course.

Looking at them from the corner of your eye you see how bored they are, one of them can’t stop yawning while the other seems to want to nail himself with something sharp just to feel something. You smile to yourself, that’s part of your plan. You’ve been wandering around the market for hours, looking around, buying here and there but not really doing anything interesting, just making the two poor soldiers dizzy and waiting for they to get their guard down, so you can “get lost” and visit Nat once for all.

Harry Hook finds himself at Auradon Prep. As soon as he lays eyes on Clara, daughter of the White Queen and princess of Wonderland, he decides he’s going to break her perfect image

As Clara sat before him, a perfect image of what you’d expect of the White Queen’s daughter, he found her demeanor unnerving. Even after nearly eight years of friendship Ben never quite got use to Clara’s poised behavior.

He remembers that until her met Clara, he had never met or even seen someone from Wonderland, or ‘Underland’. Back then tensions had been high between Wonderland and the rest of Auradon, even more between his father and Clara’s mother.

Her mother had been one of the only royal against the Isle of the Lost when the idea if it was first proposed. She felt is was cruel and inhumane to just leave them on the Isle by themselves, things only got worse when she heard of how they planned to feed the inhabitants of the Isle; with garbage. Tensions only grew when the White Queen heard her sister had, had a son. She wanted for the child to be brought to Wonderland to be raised as he was innocent of his mother’s crimes. She felt the same way when it came to the other children on the Isle but his father, King Adam hadn’t allowed it.

He remembers the day Clara came to Auradon with other Wonderlandian children.

A mellifluous
noise invaded the whole Baker Street, cheering the passer-by’s day as the sound
of it got to their ears. It was coming out from that coarse flat at 221B, and
even when the neighbours were used to Sherlock’s afternoon playing, they got
surprised by the different vibe that melody had.

It was
obvious it wasn’t Sherlock playing.

To anyone
with a trained ear and basic knowledge on musical instruments, it would’ve been
obvious that the source of the sound wasn’t coming from Sherlock’s violin, but
rather from a viola that belonged to the mysterious woman behind the yellow
curtains.

Mysterious
until then, at least. The whole street gathered under the open window as the silhouette
of a delicate being waltzed around gracefully as it played. If she hadn’t been
so nubivagant in that moment, she would’ve noticed the cheers, and the applause
as well as the chit-chat the old ladies held about her.

Dear everyone victim blaming this girl who exposed Xander Berkeley. Those of you saying she’s faked the DM’s and posting videos about how it’s done on a web browser. 1. Her first exposing screen captures were shots from her cellphone. You can’t fake those with editing website code, and you’d have to have hours on your hands to edit the screen shots. 2. She literally uploaded videos of her logging into her account and scrolling up through the DM’s. Even if she used some website trickery to fake the DM’s, as soon as she exited out of the DM’s the code would change and she’d have to enter it all over again, but she clearly does not do that in the video.

Those of you saying the picture he drew of her isn’t of her but of some actress/TV character. 1. You are wrong!2. I don’t want to link the picture but there is a selfie this girl took on her Twitter from March (which fits with the dates on her phone) where she looks exactly the same as the picture he drew. 3. It looks like he drew it in the same sketchbook he’s drawn other’s in.

Here’s a collage of the images put together and I’ve obscured her face for her protection but you can rest assured that’s absolutely her in the drawing.

And the sketchbook with which he drew Steven Ogg looks remarkably similar too. You can’t fake art style and there are numerous drawings on his IG account that are without question the same style as that drawing of this girl.

Those of you who are saying “but she’s nineteen” or “she lead him on”. Or worse, capping her old tweets to paint her as a “slut”. 1. So fucking what? 2. It doesn’t matter who she is, when HE is a 61 year old married man with two children (daughters, I believe) who was pressuring a girl 40 some years younger than him into taking nude photos of herself for his pleasure. 3. He was using classic grooming techniques. This is often how it starts with peodphiles. They test the waters with slightly older girls, and see how well their “tastes” are accepted by editing them for reveal in the way he did may have done in saying he liked girls 15+, when the case could very well be he likes them below that age too, but 15 is just more “acceptable”. 4. This guy literally said he likes 15 year old girls. It doesn’t matter how old the girl who exposed him is.

He confirmed he has a taste for children. This man is not worthy of your sympathies. Even if by some wild stretch of the imagination he’s not sexually into teenage girls, then he is a piece of shit who is going behind the back of his wife and mother of his children while away from her to solicit nude images, and potentially more than that, from a girl who is 40 YEARS YOUNGER THAN HIM!

This is not acceptable. I know we all like to give people the benefit of the doubt, an it’s always easier to blame the young girl who you think is an “attention seeker” rather than admit the famous guy doing it is a douchebag pervert.

This guy is an “art hoe” who probably read Lolita and thought it was the hottest shit ever. He probably thinks it’s okay to look at nude images of teenage girls as long as it’s “artistic”.

Well it’s not fucking’ okay. None of this is okay. This is not a fabricated witch hunt. This guy fucked up and it should be exposed. At very least he needs to have the authorities checking his computer because I would be very unsurprised if he doesn’t have indecent images stored somewhere with this kind of attitude about young girls. Probably “artsy” and black and white ones.

Too many old white dudes get away with this shit, simply because they’re “famous” in some way or a seemingly an otherwise upstanding member of the community. This shouldn’t be swept under the carpet or excused.

All you people who are attempting to discredit this girl, calling her a liar even after the proof, are literally the reason why girls don’t report being raped and go the rest of their life haunted by the abuse they endured through fear of not being believed.

Yes, not everyone ever is always telling the truth, but you’d have to reach really hard to deny the proof this girl has put forward. If you choose not to believe it, it says as much about you as it does about him.

- covers up the truth about his sister hosting a party at their house while their parents were out for a wedding dinner so that she would not get into trouble

- when her friends leave behind bottles of alcohol after the party, he keeps them quickly so that their parents wouldn’t find out about the alcohol or the party

- stands up for his sister and asks for his mother to trust his younger sister when she is overprotective and suspicious of her children

- talks to his younger sister about religion and points out that it is more important to live like you believe in Allah than to say you believe in Allah; and in doing so, alleviates her worry about liking a guy who does not believe in Allah

- wants his sister to be happy because if she’s sad, he will be sad too

- does not tell his younger sister to resent their mother for being overprotective; he teaches his younger sister that their mother was merely born in a ‘different country in a completely different time’, resulting in differences in opinions but she ultimately only wants the best for her children

- supports his sister when she reveals she is crushing on his close friend

Jaal: Ryder, I noticed something the last time we were in, eugh, Kadara Port.

Ryder: Oh? What was it?

Jaal: The Milky Way has odd practices because I seem to have seen a shop? For children?

Ryder: A shop..? Oh, you mean an orphanage, oh no we don’t sell kids, they’re to house the kids whose parents have died.

Jaal: Do not the other mothers take care of them then?

Ryder: As far as I know, Milky Way aliens just have one set usually.

Jaal: Ah, well, that makes sense and do not be alarmed, but I have purchased– :stops talking as children pour out of his rofjinn onto the floor and appear from behind crates and down from the wiring and up through hatches on the floor:

Elia had asked to see the baby. It was really curious to her that no one seemed to want to talk about a newborn babe, let even mention it.

Cersei and Jaime, she could understand, they were children who had just lost their own mother – but even Elia’s mother herself seemed to be… ill at ease when she asked about him. Everyone was whispering, but never talking.

Tyrion, Cersei said he was named, her face wincing in disgust and anger. “He’s horrible, you know. He is a monster, and he killed our mother, you really don’t want to see him.”

Yet Elia had insisted, and Cersei had decided to make a show of it. “He will die in a few days anyway. He does not have long left.“

Even Oberyn had looked shaken in the end ; not by the babe’s looks, but by the way Cersei hurted him. Is someone talkingto these children ? Did no one even comfort this girl about her dead mother, for her to take it out on a baby ?

Then, Elia stayed behind.

While Jaime pulled Cersei away from the squalling babe, she stayed behind. She could hear them arguing on the way out. Even Oberyn had not yet noticed that she did not follow them – it would not be long. No one would allow her alone in the nursery.

She let the babe grab her fingers with his little hands. Sure, he is small, and his head is a little big, but he is a baby, just a baby… She smiled, then. He would be strong, she was sure of it. It’s not good telling him he’ll die…

“Do you know what the maesters said about me, little one ?” she whispered, close to the wide, mismatched eyes that were staring at her. He had stopped crying. “I was very small when I was born. I think I was smaller than you even. They all said I wouldn’t live… My mother had lost two sons already, she was scared, but she did not believe them. And I did not die. I’m ill, and a little frail, but I’m alive. I think you too will live, Tyrion Lannister. Maybe it will be hard, but it’s better than dying.”

“Elia, are you coming ? Leave him.”

“I hope we will meet again,” she added before kissing the tiny fingers that held on hers and running after the others.

Taeyong x Reader

Word Count: 4.3k

Genre: Fluff, Angst

Warnings: Suggested child neglect and miscarriage

A/N: I’ve never had to put a warning before for a scenario.. It isn’t too prominent, tbh it’s more hinted than anything, but I just put them as warnings just incase.. So please read with caution if those are sensitive topics! But this was requested by t h e Taeyong stan and lord, it has stretched me out of my comfort zone ngl

I’ve heard a lot of people blame Ursa for the emotional damage inflicted on Azula. And while I agree that how Ursa treated Azula had a negative effect on the way she turned out, it’s unfair to all characters involved to look at their relationship in a vacuum. The Royal Family is very complex, and it’s important to consider the context before assigning blame for Azula’s situation.

I used to think that my ideal job was to write. To make up stories. To lie for a living. Now that I’m in it, though, now that I’m comfortable in my novelist skin, it doesn’t feel that way at all. I observe for a living. I steal for a living. I stylize for a living. I find things in the real world, I take them for my own, and then I hammer them into a story-shaped thing. Writer? I am a thief and an artist.

One of my loves is mythology and folklore, and one of the earliest folkloric traditions I got into was Celtic fairy lore. Probably I can blame my mother for this. We were Navy brats and moved about all over, and one of the ways she would distract us children on long coast-to-coast moving trips was pointing out the window and saying LOOK! THERE! DID YOU SEE THAT FAIRY? BEHIND THAT TREE? The reasonable response would have been: No, mother, we did not, because we are traveling at 65 miles per hour and that tree is a thing of our now-distant past. But my mother was very persuasive, so instead, we always craned our necks and tried to see the fairies in between the trees or dancing on the lakes or hiding in the fog in the hills, etcetera, etcetera.

Anyway, one of the traditions around fairies is that they live in grand underground worlds, ruled over by the powerful fairy queen. Stories talk about how humans descend to this underground world and are dazzled by the beauty and wonder they see. The most beautiful citizens, the most intricate of architecture, the most delicious of fruits hanging from enchanted trees. But they also talk about how the longer you are underground — the more canny you are — the more you begin to recognize your surroundings. Because the fairy queen, for all her power, can’t create anything from scratch. She can only observe beauty and wonder in the real world, then take it for herself and assemble it in different ways. She is a thief. An artistic thief, but a thief nonetheless.

Increasingly, I’ve realized that I am very rarely creating something entirely from scratch. Instead, I am a thief as well, stealing from everything I see, everything I do, everyone I meet. And then I’m an artist — choosing carefully how to stitch them back together.

For instance, I shall set the scene. A few years ago, I began bringing a sketchbook with me as I toured. I wanted to get better at sketching people in real time, and the only way to get better in just about anything is practice.

Here’s the annoying thing about people who are alive, though, something you, too, may have noticed: they move. They move even more if they get wise to the notion that you’re sketching them. So by this point, I had begun to choose my victims rather carefully. People reading books. People staring at signs. People dozing on their hands. People studying their lunches with distrust. In this case, I was on an airplane, traveling from a tour stop to a tour stop. Normally I didn’t sketch on planes, because all you can see are the backs of people’s heads, or your seatmate, who can definitely spot that you’re sketching them, and will definitely move around, even if he or she is distrustful of his or her lunch.

Also normally I write on airplanes. I very much enjoy writing on planes, but only as long as I am in the window seat with only one flank to protect. This is because of a flight when I was trapped in a middle seat and after I wrote a joke into my novel, the man beside me laughed. I asked him: why did you DO that? And he said SORRY, it was funny. And I told him: YOU HAVE RUINED MY LIFE. From then on, I only wrote in window seats.

On this particular day, I was in an aisle seat, so there would be no writing. The seat in the middle was empty. In my coveted window seat was a young man whom I hated for being in the coveted window seat. Once I got over my resentment that he had stolen my throne, however, I realized that he was an ideal victim for sketching, as he was sitting with his ball cap pulled over his face. He was so still that it was possible he was dead. PERFECT. Dead people rarely move! I would check him for a pulse after I was done.

So I sketched him with delight, and then, a half hour later, I heard a voice. “Is that me?” He had this real soft Southern accent — the sort I’d grown up with back in the Shenandoah Valley — and it was audible because he’d removed his hat from his face and because he was alive. I showed him the drawing. He was pleased. I told him that I couldn’t write because I wasn’t in the window seat, and it was a long plane ride, so he might as well tell me his life story. It wasn’t long enough for his entire life story, but he did tell me how his hand. I had noticed it while I was sketching: it was oddly shaped, and I’d drawn it oddly shaped. When he noticed that I noticed, he told me the tale of how he’d broken it. It turned out that, although he assured me he was a peaceful creature, he’d broken it on someone’s face. He’d been in a minor altercation defending his sister’s honor. As he was telling me this story — which may or may not have been true — I was listening to him with my mind on record. I was getting ready to steal him.

I used to steal the surface of a thing. I would have stolen that story of the barfight, for instance, and all the details around it, wholecloth. I would have recorded it as truthfully as I could imagine and I would’ve been proud of myself for accurately transcribing the human experience. But that’s bad thievery. Shallow thievery. Copying, not artistry.

Now I know that when I’m stealing someone, it’s not their details I need. It’s their soul. I’ve learned to solve for x. To simplify to the essence. It’s not about the punch. It’s about why he threw that punch. No, it’s about why he threw that punch then and never any other time. It’s about how he’s telling me the story. How he includes his sister’s honor in this story of a single, crippling punch, because her honor adds a weight that the mere velocity of the swing does not. He can’t own that punch — that single punch — even to me, a stranger on a plane, without including the backstory of its purpose. It’s about how he wants me to know that he’s not bragging about a casual barroom brawl, this hand — this broken hand — he broke his hand for a reason.

Here’s the thing: he could’ve been lying to me. His story could be completely fabricated, and then, if I stole that story, I’d be telling a lie of a lie. A copy of a copy, each version a bit less like reality. That would be bad stealing on my part.

But here is solving for x, simplifying for the truth, stealing the essence. Here was the truth, sitting beside me, a confession in the knit of his eyebrows and that soft Southern accent. Here was a boy who had lost his temper once, much to his shame, and here was a boy who had had to look at that moment every day since it had happened. Everything else was details. Just noise. But THAT was the soul: and that’s what I stole.

That boy became Adam Parrish from the Raven Cycle.

A boy who made a mistake and has to live with it every day. A boy who carries physical evidence of a moment’s anger.

It gets friendships forged on tartan seats shattered by a snake and green trim

It gets sent to the dungeons to lie with the troll and shake in their beds

It gets hatred and bitterness and Draco fucking Malfoy as a mouthpiece.

Cunning becomes cruel,

Ambition becomes greed,

Pure of heart becomes pure of blood and hate is born under sickly green lights

And in seven years, after tripping jinxes, and hissed curses, and never walking to class alone, and watching the war come to their doors sooner,

(Slytherin house didn’t have to belive Harry Potter. Slytherin house already knew)

of watching parents shrink and shake when they realise their glorious leader has returned a madman

(they are not bitter children anymore, those who escaped azkaban, they have children now, they are parents, protection is their watchword, not revolution)

a school turns on them and sends them to a dungeon, a school that has hated them for years, says,

we have never given you space in these hallowed halls, you have had to carve with fire and fury that are not your weapons everything you have in this place

but here, turn on you mothers, your fathers, your brothers, you sisters. Here is your family, standing behind a madman, and you see their shaking hands and tired eyes, and all we see is monsters soaked in blood who want for war.

These are our demons, our nightmares come to life, but they are your family, your home, your saftey.

Here, turn on them.

And when you say no, it will haunt you. Till your dying day, it will be that Green did not fight, that snakes cannot be trusted, that they will never do the right thing. You will carry the legacy of not slaughtering those you loved for those who had hated you and wonder, what did we do wrong?

Here is Slytherin house’s legacy. Loyalty, to those who have earned it, to those who stood between them and curses from madwomen and slurs thrown in the street.

-An Omega having a bad day at work and being all quiet and sulky through dinner until they are startled by their Alpha scooping them up and carrying them upstairs before wrapping them snuggly in a blanket, plopping down in bed with them and telling them to just vent about whatever is bugging them. So for almost an hour the Alpha quietly cuddles their upset mate as their complaints go from rushed and angry to slow and tired until finally the Omega tires themselves out and they just crash. The Alpha being very pleased when the Omega wakes up feeling much better

-An Alpha not being home when they receive a distressed phone call from their very pregnant Omega who is crying about how cute puppies are, so the Alpha stops at a store to buy chocolate and a giant stuffed dog before returning home and cuddling up with their mate who is now crying about how much they love their Alpha

-A pregnant Omega avoiding intimacy because they feel gross and fat and their Alpha notices so the Alpha goes out of their way to kiss and praise every inch of their lovely Omega, paying special attention to their large tummy and reminding them just how much they love them

-An Omega who is just feeling down for some reason and being clingy with their Alpha and the Alpha low-key loving it so they carry the Omega around with them wherever they go in the house and press random kisses to their forehead

-An Alpha noticing that their Omega looks sad about something so they slowly sneak up behind them before sweeping them up into their arms and spinning them around while giving their face lots of loud silly kisses till the Omega is red faced and breathless from all the shrieks and giggles

-An Omega mother being really stressed after a long week taking care of children so their Alpha arranges a sleep over at grandma’s and then spends the day at home cuddling and napping with their exhausted mate. Only getting up to move to the tub where they soak together as the Alpha rubs all the knots out of their mate’s shoulders, pressing soft little kisses on their skin as they go

-Meeting an Alpha’s family for the first and the Omega being so upset after because, “they hate me. I could smell it, could you smell it? Of course you could it was so obvious.” and the Alpha just pulls their panicked mate into their lap and traces little circles on their arm until they calm down and then, “they did like you babe, but even if they didn’t it’s okay because…well at least your family loves me.” and the Omega just smacks them and stomps off while the Alpha laughs

-An Alpha accidentally upsetting their mate so they try to comfort them and make it better by surprising them with a blanket fort and cheesy movies that the Alpha hates but the Omega loves

-After reading ‘The Fault In Our Stars’ an Omega dissolves into a blubbering mess of tears on the floor and their Alpha picks up such a strong scent of distress that they come bursting in being all panicked and trying to figure out what’s wrong like, “Shhh, it’s okay, you’re okay, everything’s okay” and the Omega freaks, “Stop fucking saying okay! Okay was their always but it doesn’t fucking matter anymore! A-and I just-” and their mate then notices the book that was apparently thrown across the room and just stares because, a book? Really? Afraid to approach the Omega and be yelled at again, they eventually slide a bowl of ice cream across the floor and the Omega accepts it and life goes back to normal

-A couple trying for a kid and after a couple failed attempts during heats, the Omega is starting to feel a bit discouraged so their Alpha snuggles up with them, lightly running a hand up and down their back and crooning softly and after it’s quiet for awhile the Alpha attempts to lighten the mood like, “You’ve gotta admit we’ve had a lot of fun trying though” and the Omega just turns into a red flustered mess but even they can’t help giggling a bit. Though they feel much better when after the next heat they find out they are expecting at least two pups

Okay so I saw the strong/political Hinata prompt and I had to write something for it. I hope you don’t mind my sending it to you?

His father has just died, and he is furious. Hinata can see it in the way his fists clench as her father walks by, the way his jaw tightens when an elder praises his progress, the way he refuses to look at her. It really doesn’t surprise her that he steps too far out of line and pays the price.

Her father is crying. His brother marched to die in his place, now his nephews small body is cradled in shaking arms. The elder that activated the seal, that watched as her cousin writhed and screamed and bled and died, looks on impassively. He does not care.

Hinata is four years old. She cares. She will fix this.

So she trains. She takes to her lessons with cold fire burning in her body, the kind that hides in the embers, ready to blaze up and burn with the right breath of wind. She learns her characters, reads. Learns her katas, fights. Learns clan politics, plots.

Then Hanabi is born, and things have to change.

She cannot burn too bright, or the seal will be inked onto her sisters forehead. Her progress slows, plateaus, stops. She finds the line and toes it constantly, staying just good enough not to be a failure, but not great enough to be the heir of the Hyuuga clan.

The elders set a limit. If she cannot prove her capability by the time Hanabi reaches genin, then she will be branded in her sister’s place.

Hinata is eight years old. She has eight more to fix this.

She goes to Ino and Shikamaru, children still, but far more knowledgeable than her in general politics. They are bright, bright children, and she soaks in their light and makes it her own. She learns the law of Konoha, not just the laws of her clan. She discovers in what circumstances the former can overrule the latter. She begins to plan under their careful instruction.

Hinata is 12 years old. She has four more years. But, the seal.

Jiriaya of the Sanin is in town, and he is training Naruto. She knows he is a seal master, but she also knows he could never teach her, she is to young, and he is of too low a status for her clan to approve. Instead, she breaks into the apartment he is renting, left unlocked through confident complacency, and steals every book on sealing he owns. Then, remembering just how Naruto graduated, she masks her chakra, dons a henge, and breaks in to the Hokage’s private library.

Now hidden in a storage seal stuck to the bottom of her bed are 13 books on sealing. Most are far beyond her comprehension, but one appears to have been written to teach children. Complete with illustrations of stroke by stroke guides and easy to digest information, Uzumaki Kushina may just be the key to understanding the rest of her stolen goods. She wonders if this book was meant for Naruto, if this is his unknown mothers work, then she squashes the thought. She needs to be selfish.

Hinata is 16 years old. She has no more time.

The elders look down at her from their seats, contempt clear in their eyes. She is weak, a failure, an embarrassment to the clan, they believe. But she isn’t, and she will show them. Hanabi waits behind her, face hardened into something unreadable. Her sister lost her childhood too early, picking up the training and expectations that had slipped from Hinata’s shoulders when she sunk into mediocrity. She is here to see her elder sister branded, they all are.

That will not be happening.

From the storage seal inked onto her forearm, she draws out a single scroll. She clears her throat, begins to read.

“section 9 of the Konoha Clans Act, subsection 1; clans may govern persons of their clan according to their own existing clan laws, so long as a) the existing laws do not contradict any of the provisions set out in this act or; b) any future Acts passed by; i) the Hokage, or; ii) the Council of Clans. Subsection 2; any clan laws passed following the enactment of this act must not contradict Konoha laws of the relevant time.”

All eyes are focused on her now, confused. She is meant to be stating her case to remain heir, throwing her sister to the flames in her place. She is not meant to be quoting laws passed in the founders era.

“Section 17 of the Use and Regulation of Seals Act; no seal may be used to cause intentional pain or ill effects of any kind on any citizen of Konoha unless a) sanctioned by the Hokage, or; b) Torture and Interrogation requires such measures, or; c) the application of such a seal is done so voluntarily.”

The confusion is turning to anger, and she smiles. Finally. They see the threat she poses to their way of life, and they want her gone. They call to her father, demand she be branded for her insolence. But he is smiling, and he does not listen. he turns to her and asks what she would have them do.

She places the scroll on the table before him, revealing the seal she had been developing for the last year and a half. Carefully drawn and explained in the style of Uzumaki Kushina, it is unarguably a better option than the current seal. The control function has been removed, the pain inducer cancelled out, the only effect left the degradation of the eyes after death, and the addition of a trigger feature to combat live removal.

The elders are fuming and furious. Her sister is no longer unreadable, unreachable, but hovering behind her, uncertain. She reaches out her arm, and her sister ducks into the space she has made, understanding. Her useless sister was never useless. She was protecting her the entire time.

The Neji seal is put into use the next day, and Hinata is the first to don it. She wears the seal that bears her cousins name with pride, as does every other member of her clan. No longer a sign of servitude, the seal now stands for unity. All thanks to a little girl who loved her cousin, and lost him.

“She’s fine,” Dean repeated. “You know how she gets. She
probably just got distracted by something in the store. Or took a wrong turn
out of the parking lot. She’ll be home soon.”

Sam nodded, knowing that this was true (it had happened
numerous times before). But he still couldn’t shake the feeling of nervousness.

“Seriously, dude, calm down,” Dean said after a few moments.
“I can feel your anxiety all the way over here. It’s messing with my buzz.” To
emphasize this point, Dean raised his bottle, draining half of it in one gulp.

“I just–”

“Cas!” Dean called. The angel appeared within a few moments.

“Yes, Dean?”

“Go find Y/N so Sammy can stop freaking out.”

Cas’ brow creased. “Where did she go?”

“She went on a supply run. But she’s been gone for a while,
so we’re just…” Sam scowled over at his brother as he cleared his throat. “I
mean I’m just a little concerned.”

Cas nodded. “Very well. I will go find her.”

Dean held up a folded piece of paper. “She forgot the list.”

Cas took it and disappeared to the nearby store where the
Winchesters often got supplies. It wasn’t a large store, by any means, but it
provided them with all the things they needed. The angel wandered the aisles,
looking for you without great concern. This had happened before, you
disappearing for lengthy periods of time. And for the most part, it was never
for any horrible reason. Mostly it was because you happened to get distracted
by something.

It was endearing, in a strange way. Although it increased
Cas’ need to take care of you.

Cas finally found you in the paper goods aisle, looking at a
display of paper towels. “Y/N?”

You turned, a large smile on your face when you saw the
angel. “Castiel! What are you doing here?”

“The Winchesters have sent me to find you.”

“Why? I’ve only been gone–” You glanced at your watch. “For…
two hours…. Damn.”

Cas smiled. “It’s no matter. They were just growing…
concerned.” He held the piece of paper out to you. “Dean also said you left the
list at home.”

“Yeah, I figured that out when I got here. I searched my
purse and my car and my pockets, but couldn’t find it. But I think I got almost
everything on it.” You unfolded the list, eyes trailing down it. “Except the
toothpaste…. And laundry detergent…. And shotgun shells…. And–”

Cas took the list back from you, glancing at the cart next
to you. “Come along,” he said, stepping down the aisle. “I’m sure we can grab
the rest of these things in no time.”

Every so often as the two of you walked around the store,
Cas would glance behind him, just to make sure you were still following him.
You were, for the most part (he had to redirect you a few times). Cas couldn’t
help but smile; the sight of you following behind him reminded him of the
family of ducks that lived in the park. The mother duck would lead the
ducklings around the pond, a happy trail of her children behind her. And even
if one of them got distracted by a butterfly or flower, it would quickly waddle
back and join the line once more with one small quack from mama.

The two of you found the rest of the items on your list and
made your way through the checkout line. Cas helped you load the bags into your
trunk and then slid into the front seat beside you.

“Thanks for helping me out, Cas,” you said as you started
the car and pulled out of the parking lot.

“Anytime, little duckling.”

You looked over, a strange smile on your face. “What?”

“Sorry. I was just…” Cas shrugged. “Thinking about ducks…”

You laughed slightly, turning your attention back to the
road. “Ducks are cute.”

The videos are an infamous genre unto themselves: “Mother Punches Her Daughter Dead in the Face for Having Sex in the House!” “Dad Whups Daughter for Dressing Like Beyonce.” “Son Left In Bloody Mess as Father Forces Him to ‘Fight.’” Their images stream from Facebook timelines and across YouTube channels, alternately horrifying and arresting: burly fathers, angry mothers, lips curled, curses flying, hands wrapped around electrical chords, tree branches, belts, slashing down on legs, arms, buttocks and flesh as children cry and plead and scream out in agony.

Tens of millions have clicked “play,” becoming voyeurs of this new form of child punishment — what some observers call “digi-discipline.”

Rather than sticking to the time-honored tradition of physically disciplining their children behind closed doors, parents, many of them black, buoyed by the instant gratification and viral fame that social media provides, are increasingly uploading videos of the corporal punishment they mete out on their kids, sparking intense debate on the usefulness of this particular form of public shaming.